


The Odds are Never in Our Favour

by Pegasus_Eridana



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Happier than the original, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Multi, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pegasus_Eridana/pseuds/Pegasus_Eridana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is flung into the brutal Hunger Games when he volunteers to take the place of his brother, Sam. </p><p>The Hunger Games with Spn characters - the way I'm planning it at the moment, this fic should follow the general plots of the first two books and then diverge greatly for Mockingjay. Because I couldn't handle all the angst and things in my world need to be happy AND MY DARLINGS MUST LIVE so there we are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reaping

**Author's Note:**

> GUYS I'M SO EXCITED ABOUT THIS IT'S A BIT SILLY AND I DON'T EVEN CARE. I have genuinely been writing lists of characters and who they can be in the Hunger Games. For the most part I've tried to match Spn characters with their most similar HG counterpart, but please don't be angry with me if you think I've picked the wrong character to fill the role! 
> 
> Beta'd by blackappleboyd who corrects my grammar, changes stuff so it makes sense, and, in the case of this fic, helps me change British terms into American ones. She's a saint. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Dean trod stealthily through the forest, his soft leather boots making no sound as he moved over twigs and dead leaves. Four dead rabbits hung from his belt and an arrow was loosely nocked on his bow, ready to add a fifth at a moment’s notice.

A twig snapped behind him and he instinctively spun and dropped, landing on one knee, bow fully drawn, as he faced the threat.

“Hey, easy there, brother, just me,” chuckled Benny, holding his hands up in surrender. “One day, I swear I’ll be able to creep up on you, give you the fright of your life.”

Dean grinned as he stood up and moved to greet his best friend.

“Wishful thinking, Benny. You barrel along like you’re blind, deaf, and drunk. And that’s being kind.”

Benny laughed and shrugged.

“Hey, brother, that’s why you’re the hunter and I just set the traps,” he replied, the corners of his eyes crinkling. His expression sobered after a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice carried none of the teasing tone of a moment ago. “I came out to look for ya, Dean. Your Pops and your brother are wondering where you are, it being Reaping Day, an’ all.”

Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Benny clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder.

“Last year your name’ll be in there, brother. Just get through this one, and you’re home free. Nothin’ to worry about”

Dean smiled sourly and shook his head.

“You know that’s not true, Benny. Sammy still has five Reapings to go, six including this one. And after he gets… _if_ he gets through those, then there’ll be any children I have, any he has, Hell, any _you_ have, Benny. There will always be kids sent randomly to their deaths every year and I will never stop worrying about that. This doesn’t end, Benny, and you know it.”

“We could leave,” said Benny, quietly. “Take off, live in the woods. My traps, your hunting, we could do it.”

Dean smiled tiredly. They had this discussion every Reaping Day, and every year it wore away at him a bit more.

“We can’t, Benny. You have Andrea now, and I have Dad and Sammy. Even if we managed to keep Dad sober long enough to get away, what do you think would happen to him when the withdrawal hit? We’d never be able to run fast enough to _out_ run the people sent to drag us back. And Sammy…” Dean’s face contorted with worry for a moment. “He’s not well. Nothing life-threatening, at least I don’t think so,” he said quickly when Benny opened his mouth. “Just a general lack of proper nutrition, and the whole living in squalor thing. Abject poverty is apparently not good for the health of growing boys,” he said with a twisted smile. “Speaking of, I should get going. Reaping starts in a couple of hours, I should go and get Sammy ready.”

Benny nodded, and the two young men turned to head back to the town.

District Twelve was the mining district, which meant that everything was covered in a thin layer of coal dust. The difference in the land on either side of the fence was striking: on the illegal side of the electronic boundary fence, things were green and living. As Dean and Benny wriggled through the hole in the wire, everything became grey and depressing. Dean heaved a sigh as they tramped through the streets. Practically everyone was indoors, preparing for the Reaping. Benny clapped Dean on the shoulder once more, then split off to return to his own house where his wife was waiting. At twenty-four, Benny was a few years older than Dean, so he already worked in the mines. Everyone between the ages of fifteen and Dean’s twenty-one were entered in the draw.

After the Great Rebellion, it had been decreed that two tributes from each of the twelve districts would be chosen at random to compete in the Hunger Games, which were essentially a glorified gladiatorial display. The twenty-four kids were dumped in an arena and forced to fight to the death. To the winner went money, fame and glory, while those who lost were briefly mourned and then forgotten by everyone except their grieving families. It made Dean sick, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

He entered the hovel that he, his father, and his brother called home to find his Dad in the kitchen. Reaping Day was the only day of the year when John Winchester was guaranteed to be sober. At least until the tributes had been picked; then he went straight home to soak his liver in rot-gut. Dean’s mother, Mary, had died in a fire in the mines when Dean was four and Sammy was only a baby. A part of John had died with her, and Dean had been left to pick up the pieces, mop up his father’s vomit and tears, and raise Sammy.

John gave Dean a small smile, then jerked his head towards the bedroom that all three of them shared.  

“Sam’s in there. He’s been waiting for you.”

Dean nodded, and went to see his brother.

He found Sam standing in the middle of the room in a pair of black pants that were slightly too short for him. He was tall for his age, with floppy brown hair and expressive hazel eyes. But he was also thin, too thin, and too pale, as too many of the children of District 12 were. His face lit up as Dean entered though, and Dean couldn’t resist the urge to smile back.

“How’re you holdin’ up, Samsquatch?”

The younger boy huffed, but didn’t retort. Any other day, the use of such a nickname would have resulted in a scuffle, but the Winchesters had an unspoken rule: free passes on birthdays, Christmas, and Reaping Day.

Sam stood obediently still as Dean tugged a faded blue shirt, mended in several places, over the teen’s head. Dean dragged a brush through his brother’s hair, then turned around to look at him.

“Good. Give it a couple more years, Sammy, and you’ll be breaking all the hearts in District Twelve.” Sam blushed and rolled his eyes. Dean snorted and went to put on his own Reaping Day clothes, black pants like Sammy’s, and a green shirt that used to match his eyes but had now faded to a more patchy, muted shade. He sneaked a quick look at himself in the mirror on the way out. Acceptable, but nothing special. At least after this year, Dean never had to wear this fucking outfit again. At least he had _that_ to look forward to.

He turned and saw Sam standing there, fiddling with the frayed edge of his shirt.

“What’s up, Sammy?” Dean asked.

“Dean, what…what if they pull my name out this year?” asked Sam in a voice that trembled slightly. Dean’s protective instinct kicked in straightaway, and in two strides he had crossed the room and was holding his little brother close as he shook in his arms.

“It’ll be OK,” Dean mumbled into Sam’s hair. “I won’t let anything happen to you, you understand? Do you trust me, Sammy?” The brown head nodded. “Good. Then trust me when I say that as long as I’m around, nothing bad will happen to you, alright?” Sam nodded again, and broke the embrace. Dean held his gaze for a moment, then grabbed his old leather jacket. “Right then. Let’s get this show on the road. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can come home again and celebrate with some rabbit stew.” Dean crossed to the door, then looked back at his brother. “You’ll be OK, Sammy. I promise.”   

***

As they walked towards the town square, Sam stayed close to Dean. He was too old now to hold onto Dean’s hand as he used to, but he still preferred to be near his older brother whenever he was nervous.

The two of them were separated into their respective age groups, the genders mingled together. The Capitol didn’t care whether they murdered girls or boys, so any combination of tributes was acceptable.

Dean fidgeted through the propaganda video shown at the beginning of every Reaping, extolling the virtues of the Capitol, and the strength, honour and courage of the tributes chosen. Then Balthazar Trinket, the liason for District 12, came forward. He was a flamboyant and seemingly irrepressibly cheerful man who dressed in the most vibrant and shocking clothes Dean had ever seen. Today’s creation included a bright blue feathered headpiece, and a fuchsia shirt with a neckline so low Balthazar’s nipples were completely exposed.

“Welcome to the 74th Annual Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour!” He cried, in the strangely affected accent of the Capitol. The words fell into a void as the inhabitants of District 12 remained stonily silent. They may be forced to participate in these games; it didn’t mean they had to enjoy it.

Balthazar allowed no time for the lack of response to become awkward, dipping his hand straight into the bowl and drawing out a folded piece of paper. There was absolute silence as Balthazar unfolded the slip, and read out the name on it.

“Samuel Winchester.”


	2. The Volunteer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's name has been called, and Dean does something drastic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah, another chapter for you beautiful people. Beta'd by the wondrous blackappleboyd. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Dean felt numb. There was a strange roaring noise in his ears, and over it he could vaguely hear two voices shouting hoarsely. One he recognised as his dad, struggling against the Peacekeepers and yelling his younger son’s name. Dean became dimly aware that the other voice was his own, and his legs were carrying him through the crowd to where Sammy, looking far too young and ill and terrified, was walking slowly to the stage.

“NO!” shouted Dean, running to Sam. “Sammy, no!” Out of the corner of his eye he could see the peacekeepers coming to tear him away from the one he loved most in all the world, were going to take Sammy away to die, and before he fully registered what he was doing, Dean had thrown himself in front of his brother.

“I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!”

Silence fell. Sam was the first to break it, turning to Dean, tears running down his face.

“Dean, no! Don’t do this!”

Dean stared back, strangely calm all of a sudden.

“I have to, Sammy. I promised you’d be safe,” he replied. He saw that the Peacekeepers were still advancing, and instinctively pushed Sam behind him so they couldn’t take the boy away. He was therefore taken aback when they took _his_ arms, not Sam’s, and escorted him through the crowd to the stage.

 _Of course,_ thought Dean numbly. He heard Sam screaming behind him, and turned to see his brother being carried away by Benny. His father seemed to have collapsed, his legs sagging as the Peacekeepers lowered him to the ground.

“Well!” exclaimed Balthazar. “What a heroic young man! District Twelve’s first ever volunteer, too! And I’ll bet my shoes that that was your little brother.”

Dean nodded jerkily, but didn’t say anything. Balthazar, however, refused to be put off.

“Well, I think we all deserve to know the name of such a hero. Speak into the microphone, love.”

Dean worked past the lump in his throat, and spoke, his voice sounding raw and hoarse.

“Dean. Dean Winchester.”

“Well, Dean Winchester, you’ll certainly be one to watch this year. How exciting! Now, for the second tribute…”

Balthazar picked another slip of paper, unfolded it, and waited for the crowd to quiet before he read the name printed there.

“Castiel Nightingale.”

A slight, dark-haired boy, around the same age as Dean, emerged from the crowd. No-one volunteered for him; no-one even seemed to cry for him. A woman stood stony-faced with a small bearded man at her side; neither seeming to need the comfort the people surrounding them were offering. As Castiel approached the stage and his face became clearer, Dean felt his heart sink.

_No. Not him. Anyone but him._

_***_

 

_Ten years ago. Grief. Rain. Hunger. A pair of kind blue eyes. A warm loaf of bread._

_***_

 

The dark-haired tribute seemed to be in shock. He answered in quiet, monosyllabic tones to Balthazar’s teasing questions and his eyes (which were indeed a vibrant shade of blue) were glazed with tears.

All too soon, the two tributes had been shepherded off the stage and into separate rooms in order to say their goodbyes to family and friends.

The first through the door to Dean’s room was Benny, who walked over to him and hugged him tightly.

“Fuckin’ idiot,” he hissed. Dean gave a mirthless chuckle.

“Didn’t exactly have much choice,” he said. “I was never gonna let Sammy go up there.”

He could see in Benny’s eyes that the older man understood entirely but still didn’t want to accept it.

“Benny, you have to promise me you’ll look after Sammy if…”

“Shut up, don’t you talk like that, y’hear? You’re a hunter, Dean, you’re the best archer I’ve ever seen.” Benny gave Dean a small shove. “And what the Hell do you mean by asking me somethin’ like that? You know I’ll take care of Sam and your Pops _until_ you get back.”

Dean dropped all bravado and looked at his best friend hopelessly.

“Benny, have you forgotten who I’ll be up against? There’re gonna be kids in there who’ve trained for this their whole lives, who volunteered because they actually wanted to, who _enjoy_ killing. Me, I’m just a guy who happens to shoot the little that he gets to eat. I’m dead meat. ”

“Don’t you say that,” said Benny fiercely. “’Sides, you got somethin’ they don’t.”

Dean huffed disbelievingly.

“Really? And what’s that?”

“Whole reason you’re in this mess, brother. Love. Love plunged you into this, and love’s gonna get you out.”

Dean swallowed back tears and hugged Benny again as the Peacekeeper outside knocked to let them know their time was up.

“You sap,” he mumbled. Benny just chuckled.

“I’ll see you when you get back, brother.”

***

Sam barrelled into the room and into Dean’s arms, followed closely by John.

“Why, Dean, why did you do that?” Sam sobbed. Dean shushed him, petting his hair gently.

 “You know me, Sammy, always hoggin’ the limelight,” he joked half-heartedly. Sam just held on to him tighter. Dean met his father’s gaze over the top of his brother’s head.

“The drinking stops,” Dean growled. John flinched at the tone in his son’s voice. “I’m not gonna be here to pick up the pieces now, and you have to take care of Sammy.  He is the single most important thing in your life now, you hear?”

John nodded, and Dean let go of Sam in order to embrace his father. “It’ll be OK,” he said gruffly. “You’ll be OK.” John just held on tighter and Sam joined them. The family stayed that way until the Peacekeepers came to escort them out. Sam started crying again, and the last sight Dean had of his brother was of his red, blotchy, scared face.

He sat down heavily and put his head in his hands.

***

Dean and Castiel were escorted out of the car that had transported them to the station, and onto the train.

Castiel had obviously been crying, and Dean felt an odd sort of admiration for his refusal to attempt to cover that up. He had held his head high all through the journey, whereas Dean had kept his head down and tried to ignore everything and everyone.

They entered the train and Dean was immediately struck by the opulence of it all. Castiel was obviously taking it all in too, and Dean heard the other tribute murmur,

“One of those chandeliers could feed five families for at least half a year…”

Dean tried very hard to ignore how appealing he found that voice – the perfect blend of rough and smooth, gruff tones with compassionate words.

His train of thought was interrupted by the entry of Balthazar, who bustled in followed by a scruffy, bearded man who Dean recognised as Bobby Singer, District Twelve’s only victor, and therefore mentor to all the tributes from the district, responsible for training them and then finding them support and sponsors once they were in the arena. It was therefore not reassuring that Bobby was a notorious drunk. The man looked Dean and Cas over, then said,

“Dead,” and turned to leave. Dean felt a hot burst of anger, and he leapt to block Bobby’s exit.

“What the fuck?” he said. “You’re our mentor, you’re supposed to at least _try_ to keep us alive in there, and that’s all you have to say? Not good enough, old man.”

Bobby held his gaze for a moment, then let out a gruff laugh.

“Maybe I was wrong. This little idjit’s a real firebrand. Maybe you do have a snowball’s chance in Hell, boy.”

With that, he pushed past Dean and staggered into the corridor. Dean made to go after him, but a gentle hand on his arm stopped him.

“Let me go,” said Castiel, and followed Bobby.

Dean didn’t know what Castiel had done, but it had worked. Bobby had turned up that evening at dinner freshly showered and mostly sober. They discussed strategy and watched the footage of the Reapings from the other Districts, concentrating mostly on the tributes from Districts One, Two and Four, which was where the highly trained Career tributes came from.

The journey to the Capitol took 24 hours, so Dean was given a bedroom. It was twice the size of his whole house, and he tried not to think too much about the unfairness of it all. He’d only be angry and impotent then…instead of resigned and impotent.

The next day Dean and Castiel were sitting quietly in one of the train cars when Balthazar rushed in, almost shrieking at them to look out of the windows. They obeyed, and were met with a vision that shone with opulence and decadence. Bursts of colour were everywhere, jewels shone, clean, bright water flowed freely. Everywhere Dean looked he could see evidence of richness and excess. It was nauseating. Balthazar stood with them, beaming proudly as though he had personally led them to the Promised Land.

“Boys,” he announced with a fitting flourish, “welcome to the Capitol.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hunger for feedback like the residents of District 12 hunger for, well, food.


	3. Introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Castiel arrive in the Capitol to be introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, chaps - Christmas, despite what people say, IS NOT A RELAXING TIME OF YEAR. I loves it, though.   
> Beta'd as usual by the goddess that is blackappleboyd. 
> 
> Enjoy, my pretties!

As soon as the train stopped, Dean and Castiel were separated and taken off to the Health and Beauty Centre. Dean was subjected to the most rigorous bath he had ever experienced, and then was pushed straight into the shower. He learned quickly that protesting was useless: the men and women assigned to him ignored his complaints and discussed him as though he wasn’t there. His gut churned with anger at being treated like an animal, as though he was too far below these people to even speak the same language. They did, however, talk about some of the other tributes, and Dean listened carefully for any helpful remarks. Unfortunately, they seemed mostly pre-occupied with the tributes’ looks and Reaping Day outfits, so Dean gave up and lightly napped as his nails were buffed and the callouses on his hands indignantly exclaimed over.

After the buffing and cleansing, Dean’s hair was trimmed, and his dark blonde hair given lighter highlights. He was then shaved, which involved one of the beauticians holding a razor to his throat. It did nothing to calm the sick feeling in his stomach.

“Nearly done,” beamed one of the attendants. “Then Charlie can make a start on the attempt to make you look good.”

“What?” spluttered Dean. “What the hell have you being doing to me up ‘til now, then?”

“Oh, sweetie,” said the attendant pityingly. “We’ve been trying _desperately_ to undo all the damage you’ve managed to do to yourself living in that _horrid_ place!”

Dean swallowed down an angry retort. It wasn’t this woman’s fault that the world in which they lived in was so unequal; wasn’t even her fault that she was so ignorant about the living conditions forced on them by the Capitol. He didn’t really want to explain the extremely limited supply of hot water in his home District, or how he always made sure Sammy bathed first, leaving Dean to hurriedly wash in a tub of lukewarm (at best), used water.

He instead forced himself to grit his teeth and sit silently as the attendants fluttered around him flapping like gaudy butterflies, and with no more substance to them. He bore the poking and prodding, the exclamations and comments on his dirtiness, his unkempt appearance, and even his skin (“Darling! Have you _never_ moisturised? Is District Twelve _completely_ barbaric?”). Dean thought wryly to himself that perhaps this was the Capitol’s way of ensuring a good show by ratcheting up the tributes’ bloodlust beforehand. Dean distracted himself with wondering what the costumes for the opening ceremony would be this year. Each year, the tributes were presented to the Capitol for the first time, where the President would officially declare the start of the Games. The tributes were always dressed in some way which was relevant to their home district. This worked out better for some districts than for others. District 7, for instance, produced lumber, so were pretty much always trees. District 10, as the livestock district, were often farmyard animals. For a place with such a crazed sense of fashion, the Capitol’s designers were incredibly unoriginal when it came to the tributes.

Finally, Dean was deemed to be at an acceptable base level for Charlie, whoever he was. The attendants stepped back respectfully, and Dean looked apprehensively towards the door, expecting some kind of tall, intimidating-yet-flamboyant man who would look down his nose at Dean as he dressed him (as always seemed to be the case for the District 12 tributes), in a coal miner’s outfit.

He was therefore somewhat surprised when a small natural redhead who was decidedly female bounced into the room.

“You must be Dean,” she smiled with a surprisingly soft expression, and cupped his cheek gently. “I saw what you did for your brother,” Charlie said quietly. “I promise you, I will do everything in my power to help you.”

Dean almost managed to suppress his snort.

“No offence, _Charlie_ , but how exactly are you going to help me? You’re here to make me look pretty for the cameras, that’s it.”

Charlie’s smiled widened and took on a rather mischievous quality.

“No, Dean. I’m here to help you make an _impression_. Believe me, there is a _world_ of difference.”

***

Dean walked rather gingerly into the bay where the tributes would wait prior to being introduced to Panem. Over by the entrance, the twelve chariots which would carry the two tributes from each district were already lining up.

Dean scanned the area for a familiar face, and felt a surge of relief when he saw Castiel. Like Dean, the blue-eyed boy was dressed in a plain black jumpsuit that clung to every curve and angle of his body. Dean tried very hard not to let his eyes stray below Castiel’s waist. He wasn’t sure that he would be able to look away. He fixed his eyes on the other tribute’s face instead, which actually turned out to be just as much of a mistake.

Castiel’s designer, like Charlie, had left his face mostly bare of make-up apart from whatever was necessary for the cameras, and a thick band of eyeliner around his eyes. Those eyes. Sapphire-blue and piercing even on their own, but when coupled with a black jumpsuit and ruffled black hair and set against a band of kohl? Dean could happily drown in those eyes.

 _Stop it,_ he told himself sternly. _He’s the enemy. Soon as we get into the arena, he’s going to do everything he can to kill you. Don’t get attached._

He wrenched his gaze from Castiel’s eyes, and cleared his throat.

“So, any idea what our designers have in store for us?” he asked. “All Charlie would tell me was that it was going to be, and I quote, ` _epic`_.”

Castiel gave a small smile.

“I’m afraid Gilda told me much the same thing. I believe that they, Bobby, and Balthazar will be joining us in a moment for our final instructions.”

The two boys stood nervously together, waiting for the rest of their team. Dean eyed the other tributes, trying to get some kind of a feel about who was most likely to kill him. The two tributes from District Two seemed to be giving him the evil eye, or perhaps that was just how they looked. As tributes from a Capitol-friendly district (One, Two and Four), Dean knew that these people had volunteered to be here, like he had. Unlike him though, they had trained for the Games all their lives; had _wanted_ to enter the arena to bring glory to themselves and their district. If they came home victorious, they would be heroes to their families and district, revered and practically worshipped for the rest of their lives. In contrast to his mixed feelings about Castiel, Dean had no doubt that, if the need arose, he would personally kill any Career who got in the way of his return to Sammy. 

Balthazar’s jovial voice jerked him out of his dark thoughts.

“Right. Now my loves, are we all ready to be presented to the world? Remember to smile and show everyone how grateful you are to be here-“

Thankfully, the pep-talk was interrupted by Bobby, Charlie, and Gilda walking up.

“Ready?” asked Gilda.

“Not even a little bit,” Castiel replied, grinning when Dean snickered.

“Ready or not, you’re almost up,” said Bobby. “So Charlie, Gilda, if you have any last minute prep, now’s the time.”

“Right then,” beamed Charlie. “Let’s get this show on the road.” Seeing Dean’s confused and extremely apprehensive face, she relented and explained. “So, District Twelve is known for coal mining, but frankly there’s only so much you can do with that, and all of it has been done to death…” she blushed. “Urm, sorry, poor word choice…but anyway, Gilda and I got to thinking, and we came up with these!” She gestured proudly to the plain black jumpsuits the two boys were sporting. Dean sneaked a glance at Castiel, and was relieved to see his fellow tribute looking just as nonplussed as Dean felt. Charlie sighed, obviously annoyed by the lack of appreciation for her genius. “What do we use coal for?”

“Making…fire?” Castiel replied hesitantly. Charlie beamed.

“Exactly! So that’s what you’re going to be!”

“Now wait just a second!” yelped Dean. “No-one is setting me on fire!”

“It will only be synthetic flames,” interposed Gilda calmly. “Perfectly safe, I assure you. Charlie and I did extensive research together.”

Dean grumbled under his breath, but didn’t say anything else.

The chariots for the first districts were starting to leave. Dean and Castiel were shepherded into theirs.

“Remember to smile!” cried Balthazar.

“But not too much!” added Charlie.

“We want you to look aloof but not haughty!” supplied Gilda.

“Get out there and make an impression, y’idgits!” was Bobby’s advice.

Charlie pressed a button on a device that Dean hadn’t previously noticed that she was holding, and he immediately felt a tickling sort of warmth envelop him. As it didn’t intensify or seem to be making any impact on his jumpsuit, he relaxed. The chariot jerked and began to move, and somehow Castiel’s hand found his own and gripped it tight. Dean squeezed right back. Before he knew it, he and Castiel were coming out of the tunnel and into the sight of all the gasping and cheering Capitol citizens. They seemed to go wild as Dean and Castiel emerged. Dean didn’t really understand why at first – OK, the synthetic fire was probably pretty cool, but this was the Capitol, surely they saw more impressive things on a daily basis.

Then he caught sight of their chariot on one of the large projection screens.

Dean’s eyes were rimmed in the same ring of kohl as Castiel’s, making them glow like precious stones. The minimal make-up meant that their eyes shone even brighter, especially when reflecting the fire surrounding their bodies. Dean thought he and Castiel looked like avenging gods, wreathed in red, orange and golden flames, eyes flashing, hands clasped. None of the other tributes had ever held hands to present a united team, and Dean felt a fierce sort of satisfaction about that.

The crowd seemed to agree with Dean’s assessment, shrieking his and Castiel’s names, clapping, throwing flowers. Dean caught a rose in mid-air and, in a stroke of inspiration, waved it with his free hand. The screaming and cheering intensified.

Dean felt almost exhilarated as their chariot drew up alongside the rest of the tributes, many of whom were giving them dirty looks. No-one’s outfits would be remembered after District Twelve’s display, and everyone knew it.

Although the chariot had stopped, Dean kept his hold on Castiel’s hand. The crowd loved it, and theit palms felt practically soldered together anyway, so there was surely no point in letting go now.

The cheering died down, and Dean looked up to see the President of Panem, Alastair Snow, emerge onto the balcony.

Dean zoned out r during Snow’s speech. It was the same old spiel about the bravery of the tributes, their strength and valour, despite the fact that they all knew at least half of the tributes were weak and malnourished, had never picked up a weapon, and would be dead from exposure within the first few days in the arena. Dean only came back to himself in time to hear the last sentence of the speech:

“Therefore, let the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games…Begin!”

The crowd erupted into cheers once more as the chariots exited.

As Dean and Castiel practically cracked their hands apart, they were met by an ecstatic team.

“So beautiful!” Balthazar was gushing. “The hand-holding! Such a sweet idea! My perfect little tributes!”

“Nice one,” beamed Charlie as Gilda nodded beside her.

“All thanks to you,” replied Castiel.

“Yeah, those flames were _awesome_!” added Dean.

“You really pulled it off, though,” said Gilda. “You were tough, but accessible. Just what we were going for. You should have attracted the attentions of a lot of sponsors. God job.”

“Yeah, yeah, you did real good at standin’ still and lookin’ pretty,” interrupted Bobby, with his usual grumble. “Now the _real_ work begins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love feedback like Balthazar loves being fabulous.


	4. Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, Castiel and the team train and plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beloveds, I have returned with another chapter for you. I do hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> My wonderful beta now has her own account, so go and check out Ismene_Jane for much spiffing-ness.

The next morning, bright and early, Dean was roused from his sleep by a disgustingly chirpy Balthazar (“GetupGetupGetup! It’s going to be a big, big day!!!”) and staggered out of his obscenely large bedroom into the even more obscenely large communal area for breakfast, which Bobby, Charlie and Gilda were already halfway through. Castiel was also already seated, staring blearily around him as he loaded his plate with bacon and pancakes. It occurred to Dean that the word “adorable” really applied to Castiel; the way he was blinking owlishly, his skin still flushed and probably warm from sleep, his hair deliciously rumpled and…

_No. In three days we’ll be in the arena trying to kill each other. Don’t get attached._

Dean took a seat as far away from Castiel as he could politely manage, and began loading his plate high with everything being offered. In a few days he would be back to hunting for food and scrounging off whatever he could find. Might as well fill up while he had the chance.

“So what’s on the agenda for today?” he asked through a mouthful of toast.

“Trainin’.” Bobby answered gruffly. At Dean and Castiel’s rather blank expressions, Charlie jumped in.

“You and all the other tributes will spend the day training with weapons, or traps, or outdoor survival, whatever you and your team decide will help you the most,” she explained.

“So…you guys are our team, right? What do you think we should concentrate on?” interposed Castiel, and oh good Lord his voice was even deeper than usual in the morning, like gravel but with a smooth edge; smooth like the maple syrup Dean would save up for months to buy for Sammy’s birthday every year. It was a voice that washed over Dean, strangely soothing whilst at the same time reaching into him, vibrating into his very soul and leaving him feeling filled and empty at the same time…

_Get a grip, Winchester. Don’t get attached._

Dean shook himself mentally out of his new mantra and forced his attention back to the conversation and what Gilda was saying.

“We think,” she said, “that you should keep up the whole `united front` vibe you got going at the ceremony yesterday. Train together, visit the same stations, and help each other. No-one’s ever done that before, and the crowd loved it: you’ll be watched in the training area, not just by the game-makers, but by potential sponsors. They’re the ones with the money, and you want as many as possible on your side.” She paused and looked at the two boys, her expression deadly serious. “If you’re in the arena with, say, an infected wound, the sponsors are ones who’ll pay (or not) for medicine to be sent to you. Gifts from sponsors can save tributes’ lives. You want to impress them, and by standing out from the other tributes, you’ll be doing just that.”

“OK, but what do we actually _do_ in training?” asked Dean.

“Depends,” answered Bobby. “Either of you idjits ever pick up any weapons? Got any skills we should know about?”

“Dean’s an incredible archer,” Castiel replied immediately. Dean started and stared at the other boy in surprise. How did Castiel know that? And why was he telling Bobby? Their mentor fixed his eyes on Dean.

“That true, boy?”

Dean blushed and squirmed slightly, not used to having positive attention directed towards him. “Well, I mean, I’m OK, but it’s not as if I’m _trained_ in it, not like the Careers are…”

“He’s astonishing,” persisted Castiel. “My father buys his rabbits and squirrels sometimes, and Dean _always_ gets them in the eye. Every time.”

Dean felt an unreasonable rush of irritation towards Castiel. The blue-eyed tribute was going to be hard enough to kill anyway, and now he was talking Dean up to their team? What part of not getting attached did he not understand?

Well. Two could play at that game.

“Castiel’s good with long knives, and he’s really strong,” he blurted. Castiel stared at him with something like disbelief in his eyes.

“Good with long…Dean, I’m good at carving _wood_ and sculpting _cakes_ ,” Castiel said in a slightly exasperated voice. “That’s nothing like fighting.”

“You’ve got the control and the maneuvers, though,” countered Dean. The team watched the exchange, heads swivelling from one tribute to the other and Dean addressed them. “And he’s strong. He can lift logs at least twice his weight; I’ve seen him do it…” Dean stopped speaking abruptly when Castiel banged his coffee cup back down on the table.

“And how exactly will that help me in the arena, Dean?” he asked angrily. “Nothing will help me once I’m in there, you know that.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Shit, even my mother knew it. You know what I heard her say to my father as they left after saying goodbye to me? She told him that District Twelve might finally have victor this year. And she sure as Hell wasn’t talking about me, Dean. You’re brave and strong and you need to get back for Sam. You can do this. We all know I’m not going to make it out of this alive, so can we please stop pretending?”

The table descended into awkward silence, with Castiel glaring down at his plate as though it was the cause of all his troubles. Dean couldn’t understand the other boy. Why did he seem so convinced that Dean would win? It must just be a ruse to put Dean off his guard once they were in the arena. There was surely no way Castiel actually believed what he had just said.

Finally, Castiel got up and stalked away to his room. Even though he knew it was a stupid-ass idea, Dean had to fight the urge to follow him to offer what little comfort he could.

Dean knew it was weak and stupid, but something in his chest had constricted when Castiel talked about dying. It was one thing to know that Castiel was doomed. It was something else entirely to know that Castiel knew it too.

***

Dean and Castiel avoided talking to one another while they were getting ready. Not that it mattered much: the awkwardness between the two tributes was easily covered by Charlie, Gilda, Bobby and Balthazar giving pieces of advice and tips.

“Be polite,” Balthazar said. “Sponsors will be impressed to see that you’ve risen beyond your humble beginnings with speed and grace.”

Bobby dismissed the other man’s words with a wave.

“Ignore whoever’s watching you,” he countered. “The victors are the ones who won’t let anything distract them from their goal. Train up your weaknesses and ignore the things you’re already good at.”

“What?” asked Dean, surprised. “Shouldn’t we build on what we already know?”

“I’m talkin’ about your primary strengths here, y’idgit,” returned Bobby. “That means you, boy, don’t go near the archery station, and Castiel, you ignore the weights. Makes the other tributes more likely to underestimate you, which could be useful in the arena. And, when it comes to the individual assessments in a couple of days, you can surprise the game-makers with your skills. Might boost your scores a couple of points. In the meantime, concentrate on some of the basics. Learn how to set traps; what wood to use to make a smokeless fire; how to cover your tracks and find safe places to sleep. You know at least half the tributes most years die from starvation, dehydration or exposure? You two are the most promisin’ tributes I’ve had in years, and if you die, you’re sure as hell gonna go down fightin’, not because you didn’t know basic survival.”

Charlie stepped forward, giving Dean a jacket to go over his training tracksuit, which matched Castiel’s exactly.

“Basic but widespread knowledge will serve you best now,” she said, looking from one to the other. “Put aside your differences for the moment, and work together. Help each other.”

***

“Damn, Castiel, that’s amazing!” exclaimed Dean as the dark-haired tribute added the finishing touches to the bark camouflage on his arm. It corresponded exactly to the tree trunk they were supposed to use for reference. “Where did you learn to do that?”

Castiel smiled shyly.

“My mother’s bakery. When I wasn’t needed at Father’s workshop, I liked to go and help her decorate the cakes. I was always the best at the intricate ones.”

“Hang on,” said Dean. “So those cakes in the windows with the flowers and stuff, that was you?”

“Probably,” replied Castiel.

Dean remembered those cakes vividly. On particularly hard days, when Sammy was crying because he was so hungry, Dean would take his little brother to the bakery and they would press their noses against the cold glass of the display windows and gaze at the beautiful creations presented there. Dean would weave stories about the magnificent banquets and feasts held by Lord Dean and Sir Samuel, who were as rich as could be and never wanted for anything. It didn’t help fill their empty bellies but it did put a smile on Sammy’s face, so Dean kept doing it.

He realised that Castiel was staring at him curiously, so he cleared his throat and looked away.

“Right. Good. How about we try the traps station next?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback? Yiss yiss?
> 
> Don't make me do a Katniss and get out the arrows...


	5. Assessment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Castiel train together, and Dean ponders some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH-HO-HO-HO WHAT'S THIS? A CHAPTER? DON'T MIND IF I DO. 
> 
> Beta'd by Ismene_Jane who is incredible and lovely and brilliant and I like her quite a lot. 
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

The morning of the second day of training was much like the first.Dean and Castiel travelled round various stations together, learned how to trap, how to forage, and how to find and create shelter.

Throughout it all, Dean became more and more conflicted. Castiel was a perfect training partner, patient and helpful, and Dean found himself enjoying the time they spent together. He was pretty sure that he’d almost sprained something laughing when they went to try out the obstacle course. Castiel had slipped and fallen into the swimming pool obstacle. The sight of him emerging from the water, glaring at Dean and looking like an enraged kitten, had caused Dean to stop and double over, he was laughing so hard.

Castiel had got him back, though. As soon as they arrived at the camouflaging station (where Castiel had been teaching Dean the basics), Dean found himself inexplicably covered in bright pink paint, with a smug Castiel standing next to him with an empty paint pot.

Of course, all this only meant that it hurt more whenever Dean remembered that soon they would both be dead. Or worse, trying to kill each other. Castiel was sweet and kind and absolutely unfit to be in this situation. Dean was another matter, he had the killing instinct – had to, ever since Momma died and Dad had checked out, someone had to become a hunter, to look after Sammy, and that someone was, and always would be, Dean. He’d had to transition practically overnight from a little boy who cried when he saw a bird with a broken wing, to a strong man who would do whatever it took to keep Sammy alive and well. Dean had never killed another human, but he reasoned to himself that it couldn’t be that different from killing animals. He would go through the same motions and just deal with the repercussions once Sammy was safe.

Castiel, though. He was gentle and kind and clever. He loved nature. He was wise and eloquent and funny. He was meant to create, not destroy. He was going to die, and there was nothing Dean could do about it without sacrificing Sammy, and that just wasn’t an option.

Dean supposed that Castiel might be putting on an act; pretending to be kind and gentle in order to lull the rest of the tributes into a false sense of security before showing his true colours in the arena. It had been done before; a few years ago Megan Masters from District 7 had pretended to be weak and helpless and then suddenly displayed a decided talent for killing once in the arena.

But Dean didn’t really believe that Castiel was masking his true nature. Not when he saw the blush that rose in the blue-eyed boy’s cheeks whenever he was complimented, the shine in his eyes whenever he had a paintbrush in his hand, the easy way he laughed. Castiel was either the best actor Dean had ever seen, or he was genuine. Dean hadn’t known Castiel well before the Games, but his recent experiences coupled with the little that he had learned ten years ago reinforced his growing conviction that Castiel was an honest, good person.

_Hunger. Pain. Despair. Then blue eyes, wet black hair, a vivid red mark on a pale cheek. Salvation._

Dean came abruptly out of his memories as he realised that Castiel had been speaking to him.

“Huh?” he said eloquently.

“I _said_ ,” repeated Castiel patiently, “that I think you may have a little shadow.”

Dean turned to where Castile was indicating, and saw a tiny girl with pale skin and dark hair, probably about the same age as Sam, kneeling at the adjacent station to theirs and watching them carefully. Dean thought he remembered her as one of the tributes from District 11. He offered her a small smile, which she returned before turning back to concentrate on her knots. Dean sighed and sat back on his heels, gazing around at the different tributes and making a mental note of where they were and what they were training in.

The Careers were easy to spot, as they always migrated straight to the weapons stations.  The boy and girl from District 1 (Azazel and Astaroth they were called, as far as Dean could remember) were at the javelin and axe-throwing stations respectively, pausing every now and then after a particularly lethal throw to stare around and meet the eyes of any other tributes who might be watching them, grinning and pointing at the targets they had just destroyed. As an intimidation tactic, it was extremely effective.

At the sword post, one of the District 2 tributes, a slight, fair-haired, pale-eyed girl called Lilith was whirling and chopping with deadly efficiency, moving with an almost hypnotic grace. It was obvious that she was a born predator. However, Dean found Lilith less scary than her district partner, a small dark-haired girl called Ruby, who spent most of her time at the knife-throwing station. She was incredible, but that wasn’t what scared Dean. No, what terrified him was the way in which she seemed to take pleasure from the idea of killing. It was almost as if she didn’t care about the glory and wealth afforded to the winner. She just wanted as much blood as possible on her hands. As one of her knives flew straight and true into the forehead of the target mannequin, she turned and met Dean’s eye. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Ruby smiled, sharp white teeth flashing in her blood-red mouth. Dean shuddered and turned back to where Castiel was wrestling with a wire-net trap.

***

After lunch, it was time for the individual evaluations. Starting with District 1, each tribute would individually have 15 minutes of time in front of the Game-makers to show what they could do. Based on their performance, they would be awarded a score out of 12, showing how strong a competitor they were likely to be. It was really just a guide on the odds for Capitol spectators who wanted to bet on the Games, and an indicator to potential sponsors as to where they might invest their money most wisely. Of course, Dean reflected, it also allowed the tributes to ascertain who should be killed first once they were in the arena.

All the tributes started off in the waiting room, but the numbers slowly but surely dwindled until only Dean and Castiel were left. Dean jiggled his leg restlessly, his hands itching to get on a bow and show the smug bastards in there what he could really do. Castiel sat quietly next to him, hands clasped together in his lap. He started slightly when Dean’s name was called. Dean clapped him on the shoulder and stood, walking quickly to the door into the auditorium.

“Hey,” called Castiel after him. Dean turned expectantly, an eyebrow raised in inquiry.

“Yeah?”

Castiel paused for a moment, then spoke, wide worried blue eyes gazing earnestly at Dean.

“Don’t miss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what else I like? Feedback.


	6. Results

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Castiel get the results of their assessments. 
> 
> And if that doesn't grab you, I don't know what will...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Tis I, once more, with a chapter for you lovely people. 
> 
> Beta'd as usual by the incomparable Ismene_Jane, who is about to start posting her own fic and it rocks, let me tell you, so give her a visit and read as though your lives depend on it.

“You did _what?!”_ screeched Balthazar. Dean squirmed uncomfortably in his seat as Bobby guffawed in the background and Charlie and Gilda stared at him like he was crazy. Which he probably was.

“I…uh…I sort of…fired an arrow towards the general direction of the Game-makers?”

Balthazar threw his hands up whilst emitting something between a sob and a deranged cackle, Charlie and Gilda’s eyes opened even wider, and Bobby started laughing in earnest.

“It’s not funny!” Dean snapped. In fact, as the haze of anger receded, he began to realise just how un-funny it was.

_Shit._

What if he’d completely screwed everything up? This was so typical of Dean; he always, _always_ let Sammy down and this time he’d lost his temper and pretty much ensured his death in the arena, if not before.

Castiel came in at that moment, and took in the sight of their dumbstruck designers, their doubled-over mentor and their hysterical liaison.

“What on earth happened?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing much!” snapped Balthazar. “Only that Winchester here managed to forget _all_ his manners, and shot a bloody buggering arrow _right at_ the Game-makers!”

“Hang on,” interrupted Dean indignantly. “I didn’t actually shoot it at _them_ , I shot it at the apple in the damn roast pig that they were all gathered around.” He could feel the flush of anger recede from his cheeks, replaced by pink-tinged embarrassment. His brain had caught up with his temper, and it wasn’t impressed. “I shot fifteen bulls-eyes in the space of about a minute and a half, and they completely ignored me. I figured that if I shot the apple out of the pig’s mouth then they’d have to at least acknowledge me, so…so I did,” he finished a little lamely. Castiel gaped at him.

“What did you do then?”

Dean felt his ears turning bright pink.

“Um…I might have bowed and said, `thank you for your consideration` and then stormed out…” The awkward way his sentence trailed off was hidden by Bobby’s renewed howls of laughter. Dean slumped back into his seat and put his head in his hands.  He jumped a moment later when he felt a hand rest briefly on his bicep, and squeeze sympathetically. By the time he looked up though, Castiel had already moved to sit down on one of the other armchairs in the room.

“So,” said Charlie brightly, making an admirable attempt to break the awkward and angry silence that had descended. “How was your assessment, Castiel?”

The blue-eyed boy shrugged.

“Fine, I think. I just did some stuff with one of the long knives, then threw some weights around for a while –“ he cocked his head to the side, blue eyes considering. “At least now I know why they looked so thunderstruck all the way through,” he added, chuckling slightly.

“You think this is _funny_?” Balthazar hissed. “Will it still be funny when Dean gets himself arrested, or worse, _thrown out of the games_ because of what he did? Will it still be f-“

“Can it, Sweetheart,” interrupted Bobby, blithely ignoring the almost apoplectic rage on Balthazar’s face at the nickname. “I won’t sugar-coat it for you, boy, it was a risky thing to do and you shouldn’t’a’ done it, but it might still work out for you.”

Dean looked up, confusion written all over his face.

“What? H-how?”

“S’not something they’ve ever seen before, and from what I hear it was some damn good shootin’,” Bobby replied. “If we’re lucky, they’ll concentrate on what you _did_ hit instead of what you _could’a’_ hit. And then we’ll know whether you just did the stupidest or the smartest thing I’ve ever heard of a tribute doin’ in their assessment.”

They didn’t have to wait for long. Soon enough, Gabriel Flickerman, the host of the Games, appeared on the television screen, announcing each tribute and their score. Most tributes scored between 5 and 7, with those scoring lower than that practically written off immediately. Dean watched carefully, storing all the information away in his mind. Unsurprisingly, the Careers all scored highly: Azazel and Astaroth both received a 9, and Lilith and Ruby both scored 10, which was a high score even for Career tributes. The little girl from District 11 (whose name was Krissy Chambers, Dean now remembered), scored a 7, an incredibly high score for such a small, young girl. Dean wondered what she could have done in her assessment to impress the Game-makers so much. Then it was District 12’s turn. They watched with baited breath as Gabriel announced Dean’s name. There was a moment of silence which seemed to stretch out for hours, until Flickerman finally spoke, his voice laced with surprise.

“…Dean Winchester, the volunteer tribute from District Twelve, with a record-breaking score of _eleven_!” The rest of the announcement was drowned out by happy shrieks from Charlie, Gilda and Balthazar, and Bobby saying, almost to himself,

“…huh. Stupid _and_ lucky. Impressive.”

Dean turned away from them, embarrassed by their effusive praise. Instead, he met Castiel’s gaze and was completely floored by what he saw there. Those unfairly bright blue eyes were bursting with relief and happiness, and the other tribute was absolutely beaming at him. It touched something deep inside Dean. Never before had someone looked at him with such pure pride. It was always with the expectation of _more_ and _better_ that people looked at him at home – except of course for Sammy, but that didn’t count because he was a child and didn’t know any better.

Dean jumped violently when a hand was put on his shoulder, then blushed when he realised that he and Castiel had been so busy staring at each other that they had missed the other boy’s score.

“Eight – good job, Castiel,” smiled Gilda. Castiel gave a small smile back in return, and Dean felt a sudden and completely unhelpful rush of pleasure when he realised that Gilda didn’t merit the same wide, toothy smile that Dean had.

***

The next day, the tributes spent all their time with their mentors, stylists and liaison, going through the plan for the big interviews with Gabriel that evening. They discussed it over breakfast.

“So,” said Dean through a mouthful of pancake. “What’s the plan for today? Where do you want us first?” He frowned when the adults around the table suddenly looked very uncomfortable. “What?”

“Um, Castiel has expressed a wish to…to be coached separately from now on…” replied Charlie slowly.

“So he’ll be with Bobby for the first half of the morning and you’ll be with Balthazar, then the two of your will swap,” continued Gilda. “Then Castiel will be with me and Charlie will take you for fittings and prep for tonight.”

“Oh,” replied Dean, feeling an uncomfortable sense of disappointment at Castiel’s change of tactic. Mentally he berated himself.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid. Godammit Dean, don’t get attached. Tomorrow you’ll be trying to_ kill _each other, this had to happen at some point, stop being so pathetic. Think of Sammy. He’s all that matters._

Dean glanced over at Castiel, who was resolutely concentrating on spooning porridge into his mouth, and didn’t meet the other boy’s gaze. Dean sighed, and resigned himself to a silent meal.

***

“Again!” trilled Balthazar, his chirpy tone hardly dented by the two hours he had already spent trying to mould Dean into something vaguely presentable. Dean had been mercilessly put through his paces; working on his posture, his walk, even the way he talked. He was whole-heartedly sick of the whole thing.

Dean sighed, and began to walk again, pretending he was going onstage to talk to Gabriel. Balthazar had put him into the world’s most uncomfortable shoes, hard leather with pointed ends that squashed his toes into unnatural positions. He stepped (staggered, more like) up to the appointed seat and flopped down into the cushions, conveniently forgetting that he was supposed to be sinking down “gracefully but with an air of indefinable manliness…”

“No, no, _no!_ ” hissed Balthazar. “Did you listen to _anything_  I said?” Before he could get any further, there was a soft knock at the door, and Castiel poked his head through.

“Excuse me,” he said in that deep rumble of his. “Bobby and I have finished and he says it’s time to swap, if that’s alright.”

Dean held back a snort, knowing that whatever Bobby had actually said it was nowhere near as polite as Castiel had made it. Castiel walked past him, still studiously avoiding his gaze. Pushing down the feelings of disappointment and rejection, Dean took his cue and left the room to go and find Bobby. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you give me feedback I shall write you a limerick in gratitude. THERE'S NO WAY THAT THIS CAN BACKFIRE.


	7. Interviews

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tributes' individual interviews the evening before they go into the arena.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What ho, 'tis I once again with a chapter for you lovely people. 
> 
> Ismene_Jane's a fantabulous editor and reminds me when I write trousers instead of pants. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Dean opened the door to Bobby’s room, finding the mentor slumped in an armchair nursing a glass of scotch. He grunted, motioning Dean further into the room.

“Had a fun morning with his Majesty?” Bobby asked gruffly. Dean made a face and the older man laughed.

“So…what’re we doing now?” Dean said after a short pause during which Bobby drained his glass.

“Depends,” the mentor responded gruffly. “What’s your angle going to be?”

Dean knew his confusion must be written all over his face.

“My…”

Bobby sighed impatiently.

“Your angle, the way you’re gonna present yourself in the interview to get sponsors? Dammit boy, don’t you listen to anythin’ I say to you?”

Dean shifted, uncomfortable at the idea of pretending to be something he wasn’t for the cameras, but equally repelled by the notion of sharing anything of himself with the insincere, shallow people of the Capitol.

“I…dunno, what kind of things do people usually do?”

Bobby sighed.

“That ain’t the point, boy. You want to do what people _don’t_ usually do. So far, you’re doin’ a pretty good job of that by yourself, but we’re gonna need to come up with somethin’ new for this interview. You go out there and just be the same as all the other tributes, your value will go down.”

Trying to understand and think of an `angle`, Dean asked,

“Do…do you have any ideas about what I could do?”

Bobby sighed. “Well, the obvious thing that comes to mind is the reason why you volunteered – your brother.”

Dean’s face set into a hard mask.

“No.”

“Hear me out, son,” said Bobby. “People are already invested in this story, and they’ll want to know why you volunteered for him, what he’s like, how you feel about him…”

“I said _no_ ,” repeated Dean angrily. “I volunteered for Sammy so that my little brother wouldn’t be touched by these games, and I _will not_ use him as a…a _tool_ just to get more support.” His voice cracked slightly. “I won’t do it, Bobby.”

The older man sighed again, but there was a soft expression in his eyes as he looked at Dean.

“I know, boy.” He said gently. “I understand, Lord knows I do. We’ll think of something else.”

***

Dean winced as his cummerbund was tightened ruthlessly. The beautician doing his eyeliner scowled at him, and he only barely stopped himself from scowling right back, head-banging, and maybe even doing a bit of a shimmy, just to really mess up his ensemble. He only restrained himself because he knew how hard Charlie and Gilda had been working on his and Cas’ outfits and he didn’t want to ruin it for them.

So he stood as still as he could, and endured.

Finally, _finally_ , Charlie stepped back and looked at him for a long moment before nodding and motioning to her minions (as she called them) to bring the full-length mirror.

Dean hesitantly went to stand in front of the mirror, eyes closed until Charlie told him he could look. When she finally gave the word, he opened his eyes. And stared.

He was dressed in a black shirt with a wide and low neck that hinted at the muscles of his chest. His black pants were tucked neatly into black knee-high boots, which had shining golden flame detail on the turn-over tops. Over the top of all this was a crimson waistcoat which went down to the tops of his hipbones at the front, and tapered into two tails at the back. He ascertained immediately that they swished around his body in a very satisfactory manner.

The outfit’s only accessories were the gold boot-tops and a golden torque, etched with flames, around Dean’s neck, which, as one of the beauticians (he had no idea which one) gushed, brought out his complexion perfectly whilst also showing the strength of his neck. A slightly odd thing to say, Dean thought, but it was the first time whatever-her-name-was hadn’t unwittingly made some kind of derogatory comment about his home, so he took it with a small smile.

Dean had to admit, he looked pretty damn cool. With the colours and the details it was clear that the “fire” theme was being continued without shoving it in people’s faces. And as a bonus, the eyeliner was the only obvious bit of make-up. Dean had no wish to become a painted whore.

“Nice job, Charlie,” he said, and Charlie beamed as she minutely adjusted the lay of the waistcoat.

“You haven’t even seen the best part yet,” she replied, a slightly scary gleam in her eye. “Here, let me show you…”

***

Dean was obediently following a garishly adorned Balthazar towards the backstage waiting area, casting his eyes over the other tributes going in the same direction. Ruby was in a blood-red dress that looked as though it must have been poured onto her. She looked beautiful and terrifying. Lilith, on the other hand, was dressed much in the manner of a little girl, in frills and bows. Knowing how lethal she was, how much pleasure she took from killing, Dean was actually more scared by her outfit than by Ruby’s.

However, all thoughts of anyone else were abruptly ripped from Dean’s brain as soon as he laid eyes on Castiel. If Dean looked good, Castiel looked like a goddamn _prince_.

Charlie and Gilda had obviously also wanted to continue the idea of the District 12 tributes as a team, even if that was no longer actually the case. Thankfully they hadn’t gone for identical outfits; it was more subtle than that. Castiel was in long grey pants paired with black shoes with the same flame design as Dean’s on the buckle. He wore a black button-up jacket with flames embroidered in gold around the cuffs and collar. His high-necked crimson undershirt added splashes of colour.

Where Dean was fire, Castiel was glowing embers, the dark, fire-y colours only serving to make his eyes shine even more vibrantly, clear and blue, like a breath of fresh air amidst the smoke and the heat.

And if Dean felt his knees do slightly weak at the sight, then nobody needed to know that.

He was so busy pretending not to be staring at Castiel that he didn’t notice that the other boy was trying just as hard (and failing just as much) to stop staring at Dean.

Dean fidgeted nervously in his seat. All the tributes were seated lined up on the balcony above the main stage and, one by one, District by District, they went down the steps to the main stage for their interviews with Gabriel Flickerman. Each tribute had their very own, as Bobby had put it, “angle”: Azazel was downright creepy, borderline fanatic about how he would win. Ruby was, predictably, sexy yet terrifying. Dean noticed that even as he laughed and teased, Flickerman kept his legs firmly crossed throughout that interview. Lilith was working the psycho-little-girl approach, and it was truly chilling. Krissy Chambers, the girl from District 11, was quiet yet tough. When Flickerman asked her why people shouldn’t rule her out as a potential victor, she replied,

“Well, I’m smart and fast, and I’m stronger than I look. Even being small could be an advantage once we’re in the arena.” She gave a slight smile. “I can live off much less than other tributes.”

Flickerman was a great host, putting nervous tributes at their ease, being suitably impressed by the confident ones, presenting everyone in a positive light. Dean had often wondered how he’d ended up doing that job; he seemed like a good guy. Shame he was working for an industry that slaughtered innocents for entertainment every year.

Eventually, it was Dean’s turn. He stood and descended the stairs as the crowd cheered for him.

He didn’t trip and fall down the steps, and he counted that as a win.

He hadn’t realised that there would be that many people at the interviews. It was one thing knowing that it would be broadcast to all the Districts, it was quite another seeing the thousands of Capitol citizens who had turned out in person to watch the tributes’ interviews.

Dean was so busy staring out at the crowd and trying not to be overwhelmed by it all that he missed Flickerman’s opening comment.

“What?” he said blankly, turning to the amused host.  

“I said, how are you finding your stay in the Capitol so far?” Flickerman repeated, smiling indulgently.

“Oh…um…it’s… _shiny,”_ replied Dean. He blinked as the audience laughed, and reminded himself that just because his _angle_ was just to stick to who he was, it didn’t mean that he shouldn’t mask the stupid just a little bit.

“That it is,” responded Gabriel with a grin. “And what would you say is your favourite part of being here?”

“The pie,” Dean answered without any hesitation. The audience laughed again, more loudly this time, and Dean shot them a quick grin.

The talk continued in this vein for a while, Dean letting Flickerman do most of the heavy lifting. He just tried to answer as honestly (but diplomatically) as he could.

After a bit, the talk turned to Dean’s outfit. He glanced at Charlie where she was sitting with the other stylists and she gave him a discreet thumbs-up.

“Actually, it’s a pretty awesome outfit,” he said. He turned to the watching crowd. “Wanna see?” They roared their approval, Flickerman joining in, and Dean stood. “Stand back,” he said to Gabriel with a wink. The host laughed and made a show of shuffling his chair backwards to the edge of the stage.

Dean stood in the centre, and gripped the lapels of the waistcoat just like Charlie had shown him. Then with a flick of his wrist he snapped the tails out and back.

The waistcoat burst into flame.

The crowd went wild.

Dean stood, arms raised, surrounded by the synthetic flames. The flame designs on his boots and torque had also caught light, making Dean look like he was wearing a coat of fire and using flames as accessories. He caught sight of himself on one of the big screens, and he looked truly majestic, standing wreathed in flame.

If nothing else, he was damn well going to make sure people remembered him after these Games.

At another nod from Charlie, he flicked his wrists again and the fire disappeared. As the crowd screamed and cheered, he sat back down next to a laughing Gabriel.

“I can tell you, I have seen a lot of things, but that? Phew- _ee_ , that takes the cake!” he exclaimed. However, as the crowd quietened, Flickerman’s demeanour sobered, and he looked at Dean with a strange expression. It almost looked like he was sorry for what he was about to say, and Dean knew instantly what was coming.

“Now, of course we all know you as District Twelve’s first ever volunteer tribute, and that you volunteered to take the place of your…brother? That right?”

“That’s right,” croaked Dean, a lump suddenly blocking his throat. “My little brother. Sammy.”

Gabriel shifted slightly, hand going up to his earpiece before shooting Dean another blink-and-he’d-miss-it look of apology.

“And tell us, what did you say to each other in those moments you had to say goodbye?”

“He-“ Dean stopped, and swallowed hard. “I told him everything was gonna be OK. That I’d try to win.”

Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder.

“And try you will.”

He grabbed Dean’s hand in his own and raised it into the air, shouting “Dean Winchester, the Boy on Fire!” as the crowd stamped, clapped and shrieked. Dean gave a tight smile, then breathed a sigh of relief as he was released to go back and sit with the other tributes. At least Flickerman hadn’t pushed it; if Dean didn’t know that the citizens of the Capitol were incapable of feeling such an emotion, he would almost have suspected the man of empathy.

***

Dean watched as Castiel went down the stairs for his own interview. The crowd had calmed somewhat after Dean’s costume stunt, and it was evident that Castiel was not one of the tributes who had as yet made much of an impact on the viewers.

That all changed pretty quickly.

Dean had to admit, Castiel was…mesmerising. Of course, he had the fact that he looked utterly stunning playing in his favour, but it was more than that. He immediately set up a rapport with Flickerman, who teased him and treated him almost like a younger brother. Castiel’s blushes and stammers at the jokingly inappropriate questions were endearing and adorable, but he also showcased his incredible wit and a dry sense of humour that merged perfectly with Gabriel’s exuberance.

In a matter of minutes he had the crowd completely on his side, and Dean felt a swell of pride, forgetting that they weren’t allies anymore. Castiel shone, and it warmed Dean to see it.

After settling down after a skit where Gabriel called Castiel “Cassie” and the younger man had jokingly attacked the host, Flickerman nudged Castiel in the ribs, and with a wink, said,

“So, _Cassie_ , got anyone special waiting for you at home?”

Castiel blushed and shook his head.

“Not really, no.”

Gabriel snorted.

“Now, come on. You expect us to believe that a handsome boy like you doesn’t have an army of guys and gals following you around?”

“Well…there was this one guy…” Castiel said uncertainly.

“And? Come on, you can tell us,” wheedled Gabriel.

Castiel shrugged.

“Not much to tell, really. I really like him; he didn’t know I existed.”

Dean pushed down the completely unreasonable surge of jealousy that rose in him at that admission. The crowd made sympathetic noises, and Gabriel patted Castiel conspiratorially on the shoulder.

“Well, I’ll tell you this, Castiel. You win this thing, and he’ll _have_ to notice you.”

Castiel’s flush deepened.

“No…no, I don’t think that will work for me.”

Flickerman frowned.

“Why not?”

“Because…” Castiel paused and took a deep breath. “Because he came here with me.”

And Dean forgot how to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell how carried away I got writing those clothes descriptions? I regret precisely none of it. 
> 
> I really like feedback, just in case you missed that memo.


	8. Reactions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean reacts to Castiel's declaration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter kind of jumped out at me, yelled "Boo!", slapped me in the face and then did a naked dance. 
> 
> Then Ismene_Jane came along and made it make sense. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Dean had thought that his whole tailcoat-that-bursts-into-flames routine had made the crowd reach the highest possible pinnacle of excitement.

He was now reconsidering that opinion.

There were two beats of absolute silence, and then the crowd erupted. People were shouting, people were screaming, people were bursting into tears and lamenting the plight of Castiel and his doomed love. Gabriel Flickerman was saying something, but his voice was completely drowned out by the shrieking mass of people below.

Dean knew that there were probably cameras trained on him right now, waiting for some kind of reaction, but he felt numb. He couldn’t process what had just happened. Part of him wanted to jump and dance and sing: Castiel _liked_ him! The handsome, funny, brave boy on whom Dean had been crushing returned those feelings! But then Dean remembered where they were, and what was going to happen tomorrow, and his excitement froze into cold splinters in his chest. Whatever way this played out, there could be no happy ending for him and Castiel. Dean had to get back to Sammy, and Castiel just seemed too gentle, too damn _kind_ to be likely to make it far in the arena. And in any case, this could just be a ploy for the cameras; something to make Castiel memorable, despite the fact that it meant people would take it as a weakness in both Castiel and Dean if they thought they had feelings for each other.

Dean wasn’t an idiot; he knew that he had precious little to offer someone like Castiel. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more Dean was convinced that this was all a publicity ploy. Castiel must have seen the way Dean looked at him, and he’d used it mercilessly for his own ends. He might not have the strength to win, but the boy sure knew how to play the crowd. And poor, stupid Dean, the little soldier, the brainless grunt, had done exactly what Castiel wanted; played right into his hands.

Dean’s mind and heart were still in turmoil as he realised that the tributes were being ushered out of their seats and off the stage. Many of them were looking extremely disgruntled (none of them had a chance of making much of an impression after the two District 12 interviews) and some  - like Ruby and Lilith - looked downright murderous, which admittedly wasn’t that much of a change for them except that they were much closer to Dean than they normally were, and that freaked him out.

He stared straight ahead and tried not to notice all the people around him, a strategy which failed horribly as soon as Castiel came into view. Even in the light of Dean’s new conclusion of Castiel as a conniving, heartless bastard, the other boy was undeniably attractive. He was flushed from the cameras and the reaction of the crowd, and his eyes shone brightly with an emotion Dean couldn’t quite place.

They came face to face in front of the elevator, and Bobby, Gilda and Charlie ushered them in. Whenever Dean accidentally caught Castiel’s gaze, he glared coldly at the other tribute, telegraphing to him the fact that Dean was onto his little plot, and Dean wasn’t going to let himself be hurt by it.

If he hadn’t convinced himself by this point that Castiel the bread-boy was an evil genius, Dean might have taken more notice of the way that Castiel seemed to wilt and hunch in over himself whenever he met Dean’s cold gaze.   

The three adults stood awkwardly silent, exchanging worried glances with each other.

Finally, they reached their floor and went into the apartment. Bobby spoke before anyone else could, turning to Dean.

“Look boy, I know you must have a lotta questions right about now, but I just wanna give you the bare bones. Castiel didja a favour out there, singled you out, made sure you two would be the only things anyone’ll be talking about in these games. He’s given you two an edge, somethin’ our District tributes ain’t _never_ had before. Don’t you go throwin’ that away just cause’a’ some misplaced sense of pride or some other damn fool notion, y’hear? Now get some sleep, Gawd knows y’ain’t gonna get much in the arena.” He moved back to the elevator doors, gesturing at Gilda and Charlie to follow him.

“You did well today,” said Charlie, looking back at Dean and Castiel with a small yet proud smile.

“Both of you,” added Gilda. “See you tomorrow.”

They followed Bobby into the lift, and the doors slid shut behind them, leaving Dean and Castiel alone.

***

With just the two of them there, Dean felt an almost overwhelming urge to turn to Castiel and ask if he’d even meant any of it, if anything he’d said out there was true. But he knew he most likely wouldn’t like the answer he got, so instead he turned away from the other boy.

“Gonna hit the sack,” he said briskly, beginning to walk away. He was stopped by Castiel’s voice, sounding strangely pleading.

“Stop, Dean, wait a moment. I think we need to talk about what…what I said out there tonight.”

“What is there to talk about?” Dean replied coolly. “You made up a thing about liking me back for the crowds to make you more popular, I get it. Nothin’ more to talk about.”

“But I…wait a second,” said Castiel. He stepped towards Dean. “You said that I…that I like you _back_. Dean, do – do you…” he reached out tentatively and touched Dean’s arm. Dean shrugged it off and turned to face Castiel. The shorter boy was staring at Dean intently, as though he wanted to see into Dean’s very soul. With eyes like those, it was entirely possible that he was succeeding.

“No! Yes…shit, I don’t know any more…” Dean knew that his feelings, his hurt and his hope, were showing plainly on his face as he felt a blush creep up all the way to his damn ears. He couldn’t meet Castiel’s eyes.

“It’s pretty simple,” replied Castiel, sounding oddly calm. “Either you have feelings for me, or you don’t, Dean. Tell me.”

“No, it’s not that simple!” exclaimed Dean. “I _do_ have feelings for you, but I _can’t_ , Cas!” He didn’t know where that nickname had come from, and at that moment he didn’t really care. “I have Sammy to think about, and I can’t put my own wants in front of what he needs, what he _deserves.”_ He scrubbed a hand angrily over his face, and continued. _“_ What does it matter anyway, hmm? Not as if someone like you could ever actually _like_ someone like me, so why don’t you just leave me alone? I’ll play along with this whole thing for you, pretend to be happy, make nice, but don’t ask me to do any more than that. I’m not worth anything more, anyw- ooof!” Dean was cut off as Cas slammed him into the wall, staring up at him with those piercing blue eyes and pinning Dean with a strength which, had he stopped to consider it, he would have found ridiculously attractive.

“ _Don’t_ ,” snarled Cas, “don’t _ever_ speak about yourself like that in front of me again, Dean Winchester. You burn brighter and more purely than anyone I have ever known, and I have been in love with you ever since I first saw you when we were children. So don’t you _ever_ tell me that you’re not worth it, because I will _never_ accept that, do you understand?” Castiel’s eyes shone with conviction as he spoke, and Dean felt, strongly and suddenly and slightly hysterically, that Castiel was the _real_ boy on fire. Maybe it was just the lights from outside, but there were tiny silver and golden flames in the depths of his eyes, burning pure and strong. It was mesmerising.

“I…” Dean floundered, unable to look away from Cas’ gaze, and his mind trying frantically to keep up with this turn of events. Evidently he took too long, and Cas pushed him further into the wall.

“I said, _do you understand,_ Dean?”

“I…I understand,” replied Dean.

“Good,” said Castiel, and then his mouth came down on Dean’s. His lips were soft and warm and perfect, and there was nothing, nothing in the world for Dean except this, and this was everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Enjoying describing Castiel's eyes waaay too much? NEHVAH. 
> 
> Feedback is the shiz.


	9. The Night Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas and Dean go up onto the roof to talk about their future (or lack thereof).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What ho, 'tis I, back again with another chapter. 
> 
> So, just a heads up, I know I said earlier on that this fic would stick to the original plot fairly closely up to the end of the second book, but it turns out I lied. Those of you who've read the books will already have noticed some differences, but things are really going to be changing in the next few chapters. I hope this is alright with you all - if you have any major problems, let me know and I'll see if I can do anything to remedy it!
> 
> Edited, as ever, by the glorious Ismene_Jane, who has endless patience in correcting me whenever I get too British. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“What are we going to do?” asked Cas.

Having changed out of their interview clothes and into sweatpants and hoodies, they were curled up on the roof of the building in order to avoid the cameras and microphones, huddled closely together under a blanket. Cas was sitting in the vee of Dean’s legs, his back to Dean’s chest, soft hair tickling Dean’s chin.

“What _can_ we do?” replied Dean miserably. “We both knew that this would never end well. All that has changed is that I got to kiss you before I die, and that’s so much better than I ever thought could happen.” He pressed a gentle kiss into Cas’ silky hair as the other boy clung closer.

“You know I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you go home, don’t you?” Castiel said. His eyes were shining with determination as Dean looked down at him.

“I know,” Dean replied quietly. “And I wish you wouldn’t. I’m not worth it.” Castiel thumped his fist where it was resting on Dean’s thigh in response.

“I told you not to do that, not to say those things about yourself Dean, because they’re not true. In any case, my motives are entirely selfish.”

Dean looked at the other boy incredulously.

“How the _hell_ can _dying to save me_ be selfish in any definition of the word?”

Cas sighed, searching for the right words.

“This is all pretty new for you,” he began hesitantly, “but I have loved you for most of my life. And there isn’t a life for me without you in it, not really. You have your father and your brother and your friends, while I’m the youngest and weakest of five brothers, and I don’t really have any close friends. People will get over my death; nobody really _needs_ me.” Cas spoke matter-of-factly, no self-pity evident in his voice or bearing.

“ _I_ need you,” protested Dean. “I may have arrived late to this party, but I’m _here_ now, Cas, and you don’t just get to make that kind of decision! We have no idea what could happen in the arena. You’re strong and you’re smart, it could easily be you who goes ho-“

“You don’t need to sugar coat it for me; I know I’m going to die in there.” Castiel interrupted. “But when I die, I want to still be me. And that means doing everything humanly possible to ensure that you make it home alive. Because without _you_ , Dean, there is no _me_. So you see, I’m really being selfish and therefore you’re not allowed to go all noble on me. I’m a lost cause.” Cas’ eyes glinted cheekily up at Dean during the end of his speech, and Dean internally cursed the fact that Cas was so damn eloquent.

How was Dean supposed to compete with that; talk about his feelings with such ease? All Dean knew was that if he didn’t already love Cas he was at least damn close to it. He didn’t want to lose this, but he had no choice.

“Let’s just…not think about it,” he said, weakly. He knew he was being a coward; but couldn’t bring himself to keep talking about the fact that Cas might die. It was almost as bad as imagining that Sammy might not make it. “We’re a team, OK? So we’ll stick together. Likelihood is that we’ll _both_ be dead in a couple of days, and if by some impossible chance we’re the last two left…well, I suppose then in a way, we have the power.”

Castiel looked at him quizzically, and Dean hurried to explain. “I mean, they _need_ a victor, don’t they? The Capitol’s really behind this whole `love story` thing with us, and, well, I guess that if we make it look like we’re about to go all Romeo and Juliet on them, then they might just decide that we can both make it out alive.”

Castiel considered this for a moment.

“You know, that plan’s not half bad ,” he said, the beginnings of hope sparking in his eyes. Dean snorted.

“Cas, it’s a fuckin’ _terrible_ plan,” he replied. “Based on the completely unreasonable theory that we’ll even make it that far, and then on the _very_ risky idea that anyone in the Capitol actually cares about us. It’s crazy, Cas, it’s stupid, it’s-“

He was cut off by Cas twisting, bringing up pink lips to meet his own once more. Dean eagerly melted into it, sliding his tongue gently between Cas’ lips. He was rewarded when the other boy sighed and opened his mouth, allowing Dean entrance. Dean smirked to himself at the easy submission.

That smirk turned into a manly shriek a moment later when Cas flipped them over.

“Getting a bit cocky there, were we, Winchester?” asked Cas with a smirk of his own. Dean was unreasonably turned on by that display of strength and dominance and a deep moan rumbled its way from his chest. He arched and tilted his head back in clear invitation, and Castiel wasted no time in diving down to the skin there, nipping and sucking alternately as Dean allowed himself to be pulled further and further down into sensation, panting lightly.

“If you get too cocky,” Cas continued, pressing kisses into Dean’s skin, “your opponents could sneak up on you…” he bit at Dean’s ear gently, and Dean pressed into it, groaning. Cas carried on relentlessly; “take you by surprise…” he ducked his head down and sucked a mark into the base of Dean’s neck. Dean felt himself, already fully hard, begin to drip pre-come in his boxers. He hadn’t been this turned on in… _ever_. And Cas showed no signs of letting up.

“They could pin you down…” the dark-haired boy growled, linking their hands together, and pushing them down on either side of Dean’s head. “Do whatever they liked to you…”

“No,” panted Dean. “Just you, Cas, only…only you…can make me…feel, like…like this…” he trailed off into a gasp as Cas’ smiling lips found his own again, and a slick tongue was pushed into his mouth for him to suckle on.

Dean decided that it was time for him to take some of the initiative for himself. He wrested a hand free from Cas’ grasp, and in one smooth motion, undid the drawstring of Cas’ sweatpants and pushed them down. Cas let out a long, luxurious moan as Dean took hold of him and began to stroke. Dean let out a twin moan of his own a moment later as Castiel released his other hand to reach his own warm ones into Dean’s boxers and grasp him.

They stayed like that for what felt like forever, revelling in the pure joy of touching each other, of being so close that their breaths mingled. As they worked each other up to soft, breathless climaxes, Dean allowed himself to let go of the worries burning at the tip of his tongue. The time for talking was over; now they just needed to _feel_.

***

Dean woke up in bed, warm and comfortable. He realised he must have fallen asleep on the roof, and it made his stomach do very happy things to think that Cas must have carried him downstairs and tucked him in.

On the heels of that came the realisation that he was not the only one in his bed. He became aware that his pillow seemed to have a heartbeat, and he managed to lift his head up a few inches to investigate. He was met by the glorious sight of Castiel, magnificent bed-head and all, and still asleep.

Then he remembered where they were, and what would be happening to them in a few short hours, and his skin went cold. Involuntarily, he shivered, causing Cas to stir.

“Dean?” the other boy asked sleepily, his voice even deeper having just woken up. “Is everything alright?”

“No,” replied Dean quietly. Castiel needed no further explanation, and instead wordlessly pulled Dean back down to rest against his shoulder.

“What time is it?” he whispered. Dean knew that he really meant, _how much time do we have left?_

“Early,” Dean replied, pressing a kiss over Castiel’s heart as he did so. “We still have time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the smut. It was an accident, I swear. 
> 
> Feedback is a wonderful, wonderful thing.


	10. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hunger Games start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me tell you a story: a few months ago I thought it would be a cool idea to do a Hunger Games/SPN fic. I thought to myself, "Self, this is an awesome idea. Spend, like, 3 chapters on the build-up, whazz them into the arena, and make sure you save as many people as you can from canonical death. That should only be about 6 chapters in all and then you can go straight onto the events of the next two novels. All in all, it should take maybe a round 20 chapters AT THE VERY MOST."
> 
> My past self was a poor, idealistic, naive fool. I am older and wiser now. 
> 
> So I present to you, after 10 CHAPTERS, the point at which the guys actually make it into the arena. 
> 
> Edited as ever by Ismene_Jane. Seriously guys, I get so painfully British without even noticing so you should all fall on your knees and thank her for providing you all with linguistic accuracy and continuity. 
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

The second time Dean woke up, it was decidedly less pleasant. Balthazar and the beauty teams were all hovering over Dean’s bed, cooing over the two boys. Dean hadn’t been cooed at since he was a baby, and didn’t intend to start now, so he fixed them with a death-glare. They ignored him. Castiel was also glaring at them, but it didn’t seem to be doing any good.

All too soon, Balthazar’s cooing turned into nagging. Although Dean saw him turn away several times to surreptitiously wipe away a tear, the escort was relentless in his quest to get his tributes up, dressed, and fed exactly according to schedule.  

It was, after all, going to be a big, big day.

***

Dean worked past the queasy feeling in his stomach and forced himself to eat a hearty breakfast, not knowing when he would be able to eat again (if ever). All too soon, it was time to say goodbye to Bobby and Balthazar. Dean also planned to say his own private goodbye to Cas, before they had to go out in front of the cameras.

Balthazar was first, and he was surprisingly genuine and serious as he hugged both boys.

“We really do have a chance, this year,” he said, ice-blue eyes sincere. “A chance to make a difference.”

Dean didn’t understand what Balthazar was trying to say with that, but the man had, in his own strange way, been kind and done his best, so Dean smiled and nodded understandingly at him. Balthazar sniffed hard, took out a lace handkerchief and buried his face in it, hurrying away.

***

Saying goodbye to Bobby was hard. He patted Castiel on the shoulder and stared at him, long and hard. It looked as though the two were holding some kind of silent conversation just with their eyes, a suspicion strengthened by the way Bobby nodded quickly and sighed before breaking eye contact and turning to Dean.

“Be careful out there, boy,” he said gruffly.

“Yeah,” replied Dean, throat suddenly feeling tight and itchy. To his surprise, Bobby drew him in for a hug, using it as a cover to whisper in his ear:

“Remember who the _real_ enemy is in there.”

Drawing back, Dean frowned in confusion at his mentor, but Bobby didn’t give him the opportunity to ask.

“Any last minute advice for us?” Cas asked.

Like it would help.

“Yeah,” replied Bobby, semi-sardonically. “Stay alive.”

***

“So,” said Dean, looking resolutely just past Castiel’s left shoulder. “I guess this is it.”

“For the moment,” agreed Castiel. “But let’s go over the plan once more.”

“We avoid the Cornucopia,” recited Dean, robotically. They’d been over this so many times now. “Get as far away from the bloodbath as possible, then meet up when things calm down a bit. Carve those signs Bobby taught us into trees or rocks or whatever the terrain is, so we can track each other down. We stick together, and we stay alive.”

“We stick together and we stay alive,” repeated Cas, softly. “We can do this, Dean.”

Unable to speak, Dean just shrugged, determined to keep his eyes from meeting Castiel’s. He should have known better than to think the other boy would let that go.

“Dean, look at me.” Reluctantly, Dean raised his head and was met by Castiel’s shining gaze. Those blue, _blue_ eyes reeled Dean in, made him feel like he was drowning. Instead of struggling though, he let the waves of love pouring out of those eyes sweep him up and along.

He had so little time left with Cas, he might as well stop struggling against his feelings. Castiel reached out and laid his hand on Dean’s cheek, stroking gently.

“We can do this,” he said firmly, eyes shining with conviction. Dean couldn’t help but lift the corners of his mouth a little in return. His small smile widened as he saw Castiel’s eyes light up at the sight.

“Whatever happens, Cas….I…I just want you to know that I wouldn’t have traded these last couple of days. Not for anything,” Dean said. He may not quite be able to say those three words yet, but he’d be damned if he let Cas go into that arena thinking that Dean didn’t care. The other boy smiled softly.

“Me neither,” he said quietly. They leaned towards each other at the same time, and their lips met in a deep kiss which continued for several long moments, as neither boy wanted to draw away. It was only the arrival of the Peacekeepers who would escort them to the hovercraft that broke them apart.

Dean took a deep breath, and held on tightly to Cas’ hand. Together, they walked out into the glaring sunshine.

***

Before they got onto the transport craft, each tribute had a final minute-long interview in which they could have one more chance to impress sponsors before entering the arena. Dean and Castiel joined the end of the line of waiting tributes.

By the time it got to his interview, Dean was sick to death of the whole thing. He didn’t care anymore: he was probably going to die in that arena and there was only a handful of people who would really care. The Capitol was punishing innocent people for things that were barely still in living memory. Sammy was too young and John was too old to go to the mines, and there were hardly any other jobs going. So if Dean died, his family would have practically no way of providing for themselves.

And he was sick of pretending that that was OK.

So when his turn finally came to step up to Gabriel, he knew exactly what he was going to say.

“So, Dean, I hope you’re not too tired after the events of last night?” asked Flickerman, winking cheekily.

“Not at all, Gabe,” replied Dean, with fake cheer. “Cas and I really worked things out, and I see a really bright future for us. At least, I _would_ , except in a few days one or both of us will be dead.”

Flickerman was silent, and Dean looked straight into the camera lens as he spoke.

“We’re _kids_ , and we’re gonna be executed in that arena for something that someone did seventy-four _years_ ago. So I hope you guys in the Capitol enjoy watching me and Cas fall in love just to be ripped apart, and I hope you can sleep at night knowing that you’re watching kids kill each other while their families and friends, their dependents, are at home starving. If you can live with yourselves after that, well, have a happy Hunger Games. And may the odds be ever in your favour, ‘cause they sure as _hell_ ain’t in ours.”

***

Dean turned away and walked onto the transport, looking straight ahead no matter how much he wanted to look back and see peoples’ reactions. He could hear Gabriel talking very fast, and all the camera operators and people gathered to see the tributes onto the hovercraft were talking loudly at the same time. He ignored them all, and went to sit in his seat.

Moments later, Cas came and sat down next to him.

“Well,” was all he said.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. “I mean, I’m not sorry for saying that stuff, but I really am sorry that it’s gonna mean the Game-makers will target us more than the others in the arena. I just…you know what you were saying about still being yourself? Well, that was me. Speaking before thinking and getting myself into a crapload more trouble than I needed to, and pissing everyone off.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Warts and all, Cas, that’s me.”

Dean was a little surprised when the other boy took his hand and laid gentle kisses on his knuckles.

“And I admire and love you for it,” Cas said. “Even your warts shine with the brightness of your soul.”

They held hands tightly for the rest of the journey.

***

“Here,” said Charlie. Dean’s beauty team had restored him to “Beauty Base Zero,” whatever that was, and then had left Dean and Charlie alone. Charlie brought out a waterproof jacket and pants, and studied them carefully. “OK, so this material is reflective – retains heat, so wherever you’re going, it’s likely at the very least to get cold at night, maybe in the day too. It’s pretty lightweight though, so with any luck we’re not talking about sub-zero temperatures.”

She helped Dean into the clothes and then fussed a little, zipping it just so and fiddling with his collar. Dean thought that this must be what it was like to have a mother or a sister, and his heart ached.

“I got this for you,” Charlie finally said, holding up a small pin-brooch.

“You got me a gold pin?” Dean asked, quirking an eyebrow. “I know I’m damn pretty, but you do know I’m a guy, right Charlie?” Charlie huffed and smacked Dean’s arm gently.

“It’s what’s _on_ the pin that’s important, y’idgit,” she said, in a passable imitation of Bobby’s voice. “Look.” She pointed to the engraving on the metal disc. It was of a bird in flight, neck extended gracefully, wings spread.

“It’s…it’s a Mockingjay, isn’t it?” said Dean, peering closely at the design.

“Yeah,” replied Charlie. “Result of Mockingbirds breeding with the genetically engineered Jabberjays. Mockingjays sing like Mockingbirds, but they have the Jabberjay’s ability to mimic voices. Once they learn a tune, they never forget it. But more importantly, Dean,” Charlie continued, looking into Dean’s eyes seriously, “they _don’t stop_ singing. Some people say they’re stupid, don’t buckle down and stay quiet when there’re predators nearby. They’re brave, even when it looks like they’re hopelessly outmatched. And you know what? They usually find a way out of the toughest situations, and they do it singing all the way. They refuse to be silenced or intimidated or told what to do.” She quirked a small smile up at Dean. “Remind you of anyone?”

Dean huffed a laugh, torn between feeling touched and feeling incredulous.

“So you’re saying I’m a Mockingjay?”

“No,” replied Charlie gently. “I’m saying you’re _the_ Mockingjay.” She pinned the brooch carefully over Dean’s heart, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “If I were allowed to bet, I’d be putting all my money on you, Winchester,” she said.

“Thanks, Charlie. For everything,” Dean said as he stepped into the pod that would take him to the arena. The glass doors slid shut behind him, and the pod started to rise. The last thing Dean saw was Charlie standing, her arm raised in a salute, her three middle fingers raised towards him. It was a sign of respect and solidarity, and Dean felt something loosen in his chest at the sight.

All too soon, Charlie had disappeared and Dean was rising fast through the ground before emerging into bright sunlight.

The voice of Gabriel Flickerman boomed and reverberated through the arena, so loud that Dean could feel it vibrating in his very bones.

“Hello, and welcome to the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games! Let the countdown…begin!”

The clock began to count, going down from ten, and Dean looked around him.

On three sides the arena was forest and mountains; on the fourth side there was what looked like a meadow with head-height grass waving gently in the breeze. It was warm but not hot. The Cornucopia around which the tributes were placed also had lots of open space around it.

As Dean looked, he saw a bow and arrows dangling right in the mouth of the Cornucopia, and he knew that they had been placed there just for him, to lure him into the bloodbath. He was tempted: surely he was faster than the other tributes? He could run in and out before the others even reached it.

As Dean contemplated this change of plan, he caught Castiel’s eye. The other tribute was about a quarter of the circle away from him, and was looking right at him. As soon as he had Dean’s attention, Castiel shook his head minutely as though he knew what Dean had been considering. After a moment’s pause, Dean nodded slightly, letting Cas know that he would stick to the original plan.

Then the countdown finished, and the cannon sounded.

It had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOAAAH, the whatsit really is about to hit the oojamaflip now. 
> 
> Sorry about all the speechifying (except not really), I got a tad carried away!
> 
> Feedback makes me a happy bunny.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback nourishes me. And that's funny because this is a Hunger Games fic and nourishment is low on the ground there. 
> 
> FEED ME. (please)


End file.
